Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast (Feeling Snarky)

I know where I am, but nothing looks familiar.  It's been that kind of a day.  I took Chelsea for a ride in the car.  She napped, I tried to clear my head. Score, Chelsea-1, Mommy-0.

Best joke ever - I got a letter today, dated May 21, advising me that my FMLA request has been approved from March 2 to May 22.  Yes, I know today is May 26.  I am still in the middle of lab tests, and my "new" medication is still not giving me the desired relief from depression and anxiety.  My doctor would have to complete a form declaring me fit to return to work.  Not sure how he may feel about that, and quite honestly, he's not the only doctor involved in this mess that I call a life.

I also received a packet containing all the forms I need to begin the disability retirement process.  When I feel okay - which is generally for a couple of hours most days - I think it would be good to go back to work. When the golden moment passes, I think - who the hell am I kidding?

I probably should set a time to meet with my direct supervisor and eventually the managing attorney, to discuss our mutual expectations were I to return, but you know what?  I'm still terrified to walk into that building.

Second best joke ever - (oh Google, how I love thee!)  I found this quote in a candidate's statement to the League of Women Voters: "The courtroom should be free of intimidation, emotional instability, judicial whim, pettiness and ridicule."  Why is this so very funny?  You can figure that out, folks. And that is the other problem I have to consider along with all the symptoms of chronic pain syndrome and depression - the deep, dark kind that reminds you of a Brooklyn blackout cake from Ebinger's, just not as sweet. Depression and I have been sharing a bed since I was around seven years old, and it always steals the covers.  Consequently, we are not on good terms. And depression, like fibromyalgia, always wins.  Damn.

The problem with entering your sixties is that you finally have most of the knowledge and wisdom you thought you were going to get the morning you turned twenty-one, which casts great shadows on decisions you made in your forties and fifties.  So now you are filled with doubts and regrets that will haunt you to the end of your days.  Woulda, shoulda, coulda.

The other problem with entering your sixties is that you reasonably expect a certain degree of respect arising from your (slightly) advanced age, and all that knowledge and wisdom stuff I wrote about in the other sentence. So when someone goes out of their way to be disrespectful, it's bad. Because now you've got doubts, regrets, anger, and righteous indignation.

Add that to the basic fact that while "God makes no mistakes", at least according to Lady Gaga,  He does create us humans for planned obsolescence, so by the time you hit your sixties, you've got aches and pains somewhere, maybe even a couple of somewheres. Which makes you cranky, and grouchy, and pissed off because you are being disrespected by someone who should know better, your back hurts most of the time, and you have no patience for this kind of crap. Fortunately, Karma is a patient dude.

No recipes today, kids.  I want to savor the Cavalier's 4-0 sweep of the Atlanta Hawks.  New Eastern Conference Champions - now I just want to see Golden State finish off the Houston Rockets.  Sorry, Dwight - no, not really.

To quote Walter Cronkite, and that's the way it is.

Finally, a photo that popped up on Facebook - three years ago today.  The last time I saw her.  My childhood friend, my confidante, my conscience.  I thought we would grow old together, but God had other plans.

No comments:

Post a Comment